by Grace Draven
Asil’s fingers smoothed out her braid. “Hamod says it’s a grave. I don’t remember it from last year when we traveled this way. He and Halani have gone to take a look.”
Gilene hadn’t seen either of them leave, though when her gaze found Azarion, she noticed he stared into the wood’s gloom in the burial mound’s direction, his brow knitted into a faint frown.
Graves were meant to be left alone, not explored. After the terror of Midrigar, she planned to avoid any and all as much as possible.
She returned her attention to the basket, listening with half an ear as Asil rambled on about everything from who in the caravan had lost a tooth to what they all ate a week earlier. Still, Gilene couldn’t help but cast glances toward the mound and a few more at Azarion, whose scrutiny was not so obvious now but no less intense.
When Hamod and Halani returned to the camp, Hamod wore a pleased expression and Halani a dour one. What had they discovered at the burial site of some local village leader?
Such questions were risky ones, and Gilene kept her curiosity to herself, noting that Azarion made no comment to Hamod either. She worked the baskets, finishing one and almost the other by the time the stout cook Marata called them all to supper.
They ate in a communal circle instead of separate family gatherings, enjoying bowls of stew made of the rabbit Azarion had snared and the wild onions and parsnips foraged by some of the caravan women and their children. Everyone drank cups of thick ale from a barrel perched on a platform at the back of one of the wagons or from water carried in buckets from the nearby stream.
Gilene sat beside Azarion, trying her best to act as if his nearness and casual touches on her knee and shoulder were a natural thing between them. She didn’t talk to him, listening instead to the easy banter he exchanged with the other men and the occasional laughter that spilled from his lips at someone else’s ribald joke.
Across the fire, Halani sat with Asil and stirred the contents of her bowl with little enthusiasm. Her features only lightened when, after supper, someone called for a story.
“Tell us a story, Halani!” one man yelled from his perch on the steps of his wagon.
Another joined him. “Yes! Tell the tale of how Kansi Yuv slew the last draga and gave it to the emperor!”
Halani, who was putting away the recently washed bowls in a chest by one of the wagons, straightened with a groan. “I’ve told that story a hundred times! Wouldn’t you rather hear about the sea maidens of Latchep? Or how Soriya caught lightning in her basket and gave it to men to turn into fire?”
A chorus of “No!” sounded through the camp, followed by a single voice that yelled, “The draga! We want the draga!” It was taken up by the others, who made it a chant until Halani plopped down on a fallen log that had been dragged near the fire as seating.
“Very well,” she said. She smoothed her skirts over her knees and leaned forward. Azarion’s huff of smothered laughter teased Gilene’s ear as the crowd mimicked Halani’s actions. “Golnar was the last great draga that besieged the lands of the Empire, stealing cattle and treasure alike. He burned villages with the fires that spewed from his nostrils, and his wings were so large that, in flight, they blotted out the sun.”
The audience caught their breaths when Halani paused. Gilene did the same, despite knowing the tale.
“Many had tried to kill Golnar,” Halani continued. “But the draga was old and wise and far too clever. If he didn’t kill them, he used his sorcery to escape, back to his hidden cave with its treasures greater than all the wealth of the world.” She raised her arms and spread them wide to encompass an imaginary world before her.
“But one man understood that for all a draga’s many strengths, it had one weakness: a lust for treasure. The great hero Kansi Yuv asked the emperor to have a statue made. That of a beautiful woman cast in gold.”
Several in the crowd chimed in then. “The Sun Maiden.”
Halani scowled. “Who’s supposed to be telling this story?” The group settled down once more, and the storyteller resumed her tale.
“Kansi Yuv planned to use the statue to lure Golnar into a trap and kill him, turning his prize over to the emperor for honor and glory.” Whistles and hoots from the enraptured audience punctuated her words.
“He and his men hid ballistae loaded with spears in a ravine too narrow for a draga to swoop in and carry off its prize. At the bottom, they placed the gold-covered statue.”
“The Sun Maiden!” one child shouted.
Halani nodded. “Given such a name because her gold shone like the sun.
“Kansi Yuv and his men waited for four days in the ravine. Finally, a great shadow passed over them.” Halani stood and spread her arms, tilting right to left in imitation of soaring wings. “And when they looked up, they saw the draga.” She wove in and out of the crowd, her mock flight captivating her audience as if she truly flew above them. “Golnar landed on the edge of the ravine and stared down at the Sun Maiden, suspicious.” Halani halted abruptly. “Remember, what is the draga?”
Several voices tossed out an answer.
“Smart!”
“Clever!”
“Wise!”
Halani snapped her fingers for emphasis. “Exactly. Golnar knew this was strange, likely a trap. Still, he lingered and watched. Why?”
Gilene answered. “Because dragas are greedy.”
Asil joined her. “And lust for treasure.”
Halani nodded. “And the draga couldn’t resist the Sun Maiden. Instead of flying away to safety, he folded his wings and climbed down into the ravine. Kansi Yuv readied the ballistae. Golnar was enormous, with a mouth full of sharp teeth that could snap an ox in half with one bite!” The crowd gasped. “His eyes were as red as the rubies in the Sun Maiden’s hair.”
She stalked through the crowd. “No one made a sound as the draga crept toward the Sun Maiden, his great feet making the earth shake beneath them. He stretched out his claws to snatch up the Maiden and flee. Do you know what happened next?”
One of the children leapt from his father’s lap, waving a toy sword in his fist. “Kansi Yuv shot the draga!”
“Yes! The great spear cleaved the draga’s breast to pierce his heart. Golnar roared, and fire shot from his mouth. He tried to spread his wings and fly, but there was no room. He clawed at the spear in his chest. But the point had gone deep, too deep. He fell to the ground, dead, still reaching for the Sun Maiden.”
Gilene blew out the breath she’d been holding. She spared a quick glance for Azarion. Unlike the others, he didn’t look at all entranced but bleak instead. She could puzzle for days over what thoughts lay behind those enigmatic green eyes and never learn the most inconsequential thing about him. She turned her focus back to Halani.
“Kansi Yuv and his men waited, making certain the draga was dead before they ventured from their hiding places. When they knew for sure the monster no longer lived, they used ropes and pulleys, axes and swords to butcher the corpse and heave it out of the ravine for transport to the capital, a magnificent gift for the emperor and an end to that which had terrorized the countryside for so long.”
Enthusiastic applause and whistles filled the air when she ended the story. “Another, another!” the crowd chanted, clapping their hands even harder.
“Not tonight.” Halani remained unmoved by their disappointed cries. “Besides, there’s always tomorrow night and another story.” She glanced at Hamod, who stepped into the firelight.
“It’s late. We’ve a long day of travel tomorrow. See to your chores and go to bed.” No one argued with the leader’s commands, and soon the group dispersed, filing away to their wagons or the sleeping pallets laid out on the ground beneath the trees.
Gilene left Azarion to seek out Halani. “You’re a born storyteller, though I’ve always found the tale of ‘The Draga and the Sun Maiden’ tragic in a way.”
/>
Halani’s pretty face looked haggard, as if the zest with which she told her tale had drained her. “I hate that story,” she said in a flat voice. “But it’s popular with everyone. Sometimes when times are lean and trade is sparse for the free traders, we’ll travel to a town, and I’ll earn supper for us by telling stories to the crowds in the pubs or in the town squares if the weather is fine. ‘The Draga and the Sun Maiden’ always brings the most coin and the better suppers.”
“You’re a bard then.”
The other woman shook her head. “I play no instrument, and I’m terrible at verse.”
“Your instrument is your voice,” Gilene argued. “You had those people enthralled, though they know the story by heart.”
Halani’s eyes took on the melancholy shadow Gilene had noted when they first spoke. “Thank you.” Her gaze shifted to a spot past Gilene’s shoulder, and her mouth tightened. “My uncle summons me. You’re welcome to stay in the wagon again tonight.”
Gilene glanced back and found Hamod watching them from a short distance. She turned to Halani. “I’ve kept you out of your shelter long enough. Thanks to your poultice, I’m much better and can sleep outside with . . . Valdan.”
Distracted, Halani gave her a quick bow. “Good night then,” she said before striding toward her uncle.
Gilene called after her. “Good night.”
She found Azarion by a pallet under one of the big oaks. Made of layers of blankets and furs, the makeshift bed looked both comfortable and warm and big enough for them to sleep without fighting for the covers. All very enticing except for the fact that she’d have to share it with her captor.
Azarion took off his shoes and slid gingerly between the layers of bedding, fully clothed. He stretched out on his back, one arm crooked behind him so that his head rested in his palm and acted as a pillow. He watched Gilene, who stood at the foot of their bed.
“Your ribs don’t trouble you now?” Just days earlier, he’d been unable to sleep lying down, the pain in his ribs too sharp to stay in such a position. Cracked ribs took weeks to heal, yet he lay there, looking peaceful and pain-free.
“Don’t sound so disappointed,” he said, and his eyes narrowed with a silent amusement that made her back snap straight. “They still ache, but Halani used a salve for bruising, and it’s taken much of the pain away.”
Gilene looked to where Halani stood talking with her uncle and three others. They spoke too softly for anyone beyond their immediate circle to hear, but whatever was said elicited argument from Halani and excitement from Hamod and the others.
The trader woman possessed a gift or two worthy of note: that of storytelling and of healing. The second was remarkable in its effectiveness, and Gilene suspected there was more to her poultices and salves than just a skilled hand with herbs and beeswax.
“You can’t stand there all night, wife. Come to bed.” Azarion’s teasing interrupted her musings, and Gilene growled at him.
“Don’t call me that,” she said.
“Gilene then.”
“That either.” She sat down on her side of the blankets and pulled off her borrowed slippers, wondering whether anyone would question things if Valdan was found dead of suffocation the next morning. Such a plan was doomed to fail as she didn’t think she could summon enough false tears to convince even the most sympathetic soul she was a grieving widow.
Like him, she slid under the blankets fully clothed, trying not to sigh her pleasure that the heat generated by Azarion’s big body already warmed the space between the covers. She lay on her side, back to him, and pulled the blankets up to her jaw.
“Did you like Halani’s tale of Kansi Yuv and the draga?” he asked.
Gilene flipped to her other side so she might face him. “I liked her telling of it, though I think the ending sad.” Why was she even carrying on this conversation with him?
Tiny lines fanned at the corners of his eyes, as if he heard her thoughts and found them funny. “The dragas, they say, were once many, and only became destructive when the Empire hunted them for trophies and glory. The Sun Maiden’s draga was the last of its kind.”
That was the element of the story she found tragic. “It must have been something to behold when it lived.”
“It’s still something to behold in death. Golnar’s bones hang as decoration in the empress’s chambers. They circle the entire room at least twice.”
She gasped. He’d seen the actual draga’s bones? Part of her only half believed in the story. No one she knew had ever seen one draga bone, much less an entire draga skeleton. They seemed more myth to her than history—until now. That made the story even sadder.
The dying flames from the nearby fire cast shadows that hollowed out the spaces under Azarion’s cheekbones and turned his bright gaze dark. “You told Halani you’d sleep with me?”
“Aye, though she offered her wagon to me for another night.”
“If you try to escape . . .”
Whatever faint truce existed between them for that transient moment died with Azarion’s implied warning. Gilene bared her teeth at him. “If I promise not to repeat several times a day how much I loathe you, can you do the same and stop threatening me? I’m aware I’m a mere woman and you are the great warrior who can catch me at any time.”
He didn’t mock her, and his expression turned intense. “I will return you to Beroe when I no longer need you, Agacin,” he said in an oddly fervent voice.
Her heart leapt at his words, yearning to believe him yet not daring to. His tone brought forth a vague recollection. She had asked him a question in the forest adjacent to Midrigar, and he had answered with the same fervency.
What if I had fallen or couldn’t keep up?
I would have carried you.
Had that exchange been real or a figment of fevered delirium? Her heart wanted to believe the first, believe that there was more to this man than threats, and violence, and relentless resolve. Her mind shouted down her heart, and she frowned. “Why should I trust you when you’ve lied so often?”
Azarion stretched out his hand as if to touch her, stopping when she drew back. “Because in this, I’m not lying.”
His declaration had no more substance than a puff of smoke from the nearby fire. And even if it did, there were ways of interpreting it that made the hairs on her arms rise in warning. “Then the question remains,” she said. “When you no longer need me, will you return me to my people dead? Or alive?”
CHAPTER SIX
They remained with the free traders until the wagons rolled up to the market square of Wellspring Holt. A thriving town populated by merchant farmers who dealt mostly in produce and livestock, it welcomed the caravan with its stock of unique goods obtained from the hinterland garrisons where free traders met and traded with each other in spices and dyes, wool and silk thread, copper jewelry and painted pottery. All of it was paid for via barter or the exchange of silver from the Savatar silver mines protected behind the legendary Fire Veil.
They had arrived during the height of the weekly market day, and people crowded the streets. Vendor stalls lined the main avenue and stretched into the side lanes radiating from the town square like the spokes of a wheel. Judging by the numerous shouted greetings and the large group of townspeople surrounding the wagons, Hamod and his folk were popular in Wellspring Holt.
Azarion walked next to one of the slow-rolling wagons, Gilene beside him. He held her hand, and to any who glanced their way, the two seemed like nothing more than an affectionate couple. None could see her fingers curled like a fist in his palm or that her nails carved half-moons into the skin there.
“You may as well give up,” he said close to her ear. “I’m not letting you walk freely. Not in this crowd.” She hissed at him and carved deeper.
He’d be a fool to take his hand off her; she would bolt the second he did. When she wasn’t th
rowing glares that threatened to flay him, her eyes traveled over the crowd, pausing to stare at the various gates leading into and out of the town, the small alleyways that disappeared into the cluster of buildings away from the teeming town square. She watched, noted, measured—hunting for the best avenue of escape, waiting for the right moment to take it.
He lengthened his stride, tugging her with him as they shouldered through the crowd to reach the lead wagon. Hamod rode as passenger, calling out greetings to various vendors as his driver, a woman named Ona, guided the oxen pulling the wagon through the street.
The caravan leader glanced down from his high perch, his stern features for once almost jolly. “Valdan, you’re welcome to camp with us another night.”
As much as Azarion wanted to say yes, it wasn’t to be. The free traders had been generous with him and Gilene, offering food, shelter, and nursing. The knife and crossbow Hamod took in trade paid for Halani’s care of Gilene but not much else. Azarion made certain his hunting skills and help with the wagons took care of the difference and bought both time to recover from injuries and distance from the Empire. They hadn’t come across any more tracking parties while they traveled. Such might have been luck, Agna’s blessing, or Hamod’s own wish not to be noticed by scouts working on the Empire’s behalf. He had his own secrets to keep, and that need for covertness played into Azarion’s wish to remain hidden.
He shook his head. “Our thanks, but we’re off to find lodgings with a cousin.” The lie fell as smoothly from his lips as all the others before it. “Gilene and I are grateful for your help. May the knife stay sharp and bow shoot true.”
Hamod and Asil each raised a hand in farewell. Gilene dragged her feet as Azarion guided her away from the wagon and into the crowd. “I want to tell Halani and Asil goodbye!”